Reaching out

Group helps young adults get off streets

by Amy B Wang - Dec. 18, 2012 11:24 PMThe Republic | azcentral.com

His eyes adjusting to the fast-falling dusk, Pedro Bravo scans the sides of the buildings, trying to discern shadows in the darkness.

"There," says Jackie Ventura a volunteer in the passenger seat. Along a side wall, half-hidden, are the silhouettes of five people. It's hard to tell their ages -- whether they fit the 18- to 24-year-old homeless demographic Bravo and Ventura are looking for.

Bravo slows the black Mazda van until it's barely rolling, making one more wide circle around the lot at Burton Barr Central Library just north of downtown Phoenix. They always start their search here, at night.

"A lot of kids will come here to hang out just to get high," says Bravo, a soft-spoken man with gray hair pulled into a ponytail. He doesn't want to walk into trouble, so he waits in the van.

"We'll let them come to us if they want help," he says.

Bravo, 53, and Ventura, 58, work with HomeBase Youth Services, a program that seeks out homeless youths and helps put some on a new track. That can start with simply having a place to wash up. Eventually, some will get help with work and school at HomeBase's resource center, a place to live at the group's housing facility, and a new future.

But the process starts simply -- with sandwiches.

Each weeknight, Bravo and at least one other volunteer load a van with an ice chest and dozens of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, snacks and bottled water. They crisscross central Phoenix. And they watch.

For two hours on this evening, Bravo and Ventura cruise by abandoned buildings, circle around Margaret T. Hance Park and stop by various homeless shelters. Dressed in yellow puffy jackets, emblazoned with "HomeBase Youth Support," they are easily recognizable, and often it's those on the street who approach them. At each shelter, Bravo and Ventura briskly stroll along the perimeters -- past rows of mattress pads, of metal bunk beds, of cubicles and cots, past hundreds of displaced men and women -- hoping to spot new faces and tell them about what their lives could be through HomeBase. It's the newly homeless who are most willing to listen, Bravo says.

"A lot of them, it's just a sandwich and water and 'Hi, how you doing?' " he says. "A lot of them don't care to hear it anymore. I go out five days a week, so I know who they are."

Nothing fazes them: not when they turn onto Madison Street from 12th Avenue and their headlights illuminate dozens of men milling in the street with garbage bags. Not when they exit a side door into a pitch-black courtyard and the stink of drying urine cuts through the winter air. And not when they encounter youths who clearly are uninterested in joining HomeBase but take sandwiches and walk away.

If even one changes his or her mind, it will be worth it, they say. They know because they've both been there. Bravo was homeless off and on for 15 years, he says, before finally recovering from once-crippling alcohol and drug addictions.

"Everything I was saying was taken away from me I had actually thrown away. My whole frame of mind had to change," he says. "When I got sober, I wanted to come back out. Because I knew there was a way out."

Ventura was homeless only for a few months, when she was a teenager growing up on the South Side of Chicago. She went on to become a working professional but says the experience was so indelible that she volunteers to ride along on the street outreach any time she can. With a demeanor that is equal parts warmth and no-nonsense, Ventura has a natural way of cutting through the stony faces and tough exteriors of the young homeless men and women they meet.

"They don't have to say a word, but I know how they're feeling," Ventura says. "I know the struggle."

Sun streams into the kitchen windows of the two-story brick building where Christen Pino-Ferguson, the chef, has just set a slow-cooker on the counter in time for 7 a.m. breakfast.

Soon, the first residents will stop in for their first meal -- today, slow-cooked oatmeal with almonds and cranberries -- before heading to work or school.

For 25 people who have come off the streets, every morning starts here at HomeBase.

On Wednesdays, a delivery arrives from Waste Not, a group that picks up leftover food from restaurants and grocery stores and drops it off at Valley non-profits, including Native American Connections, which operates the HomeBase program. It's one of many non-profit social-service organizations that have received support from The Arizona Republic and 12 News' Season for Sharing campaign.

Pino-Ferguson never knows what she'll get from Waste Not, and between that and St. Mary's Food Bank, her weekly challenge is to create menus with the things she receives. She estimates the kitchen serves 1,500 meals per month, including the sandwiches for the street outreach program.

"I get to cook something new all the time. Never boring," Pino-Ferguson said. She's worked here for 12 years, after culinary school and cooking at resorts. After all these years, she continues to get calls from youths who have completed the program, letting her know that they got married or had kids.

"Here, I have immediate gratification as far as feeding somebody and helping somebody."

The second floor of the central Phoenix building holds a resource center where homeless youths who are not living at HomeBase can come and take private showers and wash their laundry. The apartments for residents are divided, dormitory-style, so that four people share a common area. Those committed to the program can stay for up to two years; no one pays rent until he or she gets a job.

Unlike the downtown shelters, everyone is between the ages of 18 and 24.

"It's a very stable environment, a comfortable environment," said Mike Lafitte, manager of the transitional living program. "They can just focus on being themselves."

Lafitte says he has seen every possible scenario for why young men and women end up at HomeBase. Some age out of the foster-care system. Others are fleeing violence in their families. Still others wander in from the homeless shelters after learning about the facility from a street outreach visit like Bravo's.

"There's every possible story at that age," Bravo says.

Whatever the reason, HomeBase's job is to encourage them to work toward living independently.

It's not for everyone: There are strict curfews and limited free hours, and everyone is required to attend daily life-skills classes on subjects like savings management and work ethics. But those who work at HomeBase say the residents here are at a critical age. Keep going, and they will spend troubled lives on the street. Make a change now, and they can finish school, go to college, find a future.

Chris Siers, 24, says he ended up at HomeBase after moving to Phoenix from South Dakota. A relationship had gone south, and he had no place to turn.

"I was used to living with my parents, and I was Mr. Know-It-All," Siers says. HomeBase opened his eyes.

"At first, I was like, ew," he says.

Siers had never lived in a dormlike environment and had no idea how to live on a budget. Months later, his days consist of working the overnight stocker shift at a Walmart in Scottsdale, a 90-minute bus commute each way. During the day, he sleeps and takes care of his assigned chores. This week, he's responsible for cleaning the laundry room.

It's a schedule that leaves little room for fun or free time, but Siers said it has taught him responsibility. He has a goal: to move out and into his own apartment by next February. A year ago, he would have foundered.

Republic reporter Amy B Wang follows Valley agencies that have benefited from The Republic and 12 News' Season for Sharing campaign, to show how good can spread through many connections.

About Season for Sharing

Who is helped?

Last year, 145 local agencies received $2.7 million to help at-risk children and families, improve educational skills, aid victims of domestic violence and serve the elderly. Since 1993, more than $49 million has been distributed through Season for Sharing.

Where does the money go?

It all stays here in Arizona. One hundred percent of your donation and the matching funds go directly to non-profit agencies in the Valley and state. All overhead and fundraising costs are paid for by The Arizona Republic and 12 News.

How do my dollars help?

The Gannett Foundation and our community partner, the Nina Mason Pulliam Charitable Trust, will multiply your generosity by matching your gift 50 cents on the dollar until donations reach $800,000. That's an extra $400,000 to local agencies. If you donate $50, it becomes a $75 contribution.

Who makes this possible?

The Arizona Republic, 12 News and the Gannett Foundation. Season for Sharing is a donor-advised fund of the Arizona Community Foundation.

Donate at sharing.azcentral.com or use the coupon on Page A2 of The Republic and mail your donation to Season for Sharing, P.O. Box 29616, Phoenix, AZ 85038-9616.